I beat my hand against asphalt
Thinking how I’d love to see
The road’s rough rigidity
Ripple from the force of me.
I don’t seek morse code
But rather primal beat,
To utilize city streets
To soothe ancestors’ feet
With rhythm reaching past hopes
Trapped in chain gangs’ worksongs
That shuffle modern shoes along.
Help me liberate the throngs
Desiring just memory
By drumming this deep plea
By drumming this deep plea
By drumming this deep plea
To know those underneath
Who built these roads for me.
Their road song is long silent
But the beat’s stuck in my head,
Wrapped so thickly around
My thoughts’ hard violence
That seeking rigid chaos
I find rippling rhythm instead.
